Do the trains run on time? (Caution! winding gear!)

Certainly from Domodossola, in rather impressive scenery, the train to Novara, the first leg of my journey to Aosta, left punctually.  And the train from Novara left on time, as did the final train, from Ivrea to Aosta.

After a hot, lazy morning having multiple breakfasts, I returned to the hotel to pick up my luggage to be greeted by an anxious host politely enquiring if I'd walked off with the keys to my room. I had, of course, but she was very nice about it. 

Then to the station.  For newcomers to the world of the Wrinklies, the health warning in the title of this post about "winding gear" refers to any kind of heavy machinery or engineering.  The Bro has a particular penchant for all things wound, and would much rather take a photo of a rusting heap of metal than the spectacular mountain panorama behind him.  For this reason, there will be periodic photos of winding gear both for him and other fans of oily machinery (you know who you are) throughout this blog.

The first leg took me through a steep-sided valley, past cool woods, mountain streams and Alpine farms, the trackside lined with laburnums.  Fields of maize, harvested hay and straw bales, and glimpses of vegetable plots, groaning with tomatoes and gourds.  There was also a considerable quantity of winding gear.

I noticed: a sprinkler on a corrugated plastic roof, keeping it cool presumably, and no livestock in the fields.  In fact, despite the clear evidence of fodder and bedding on the journey, I have yet to see a grazing animal.  Are they not allowed anywhere near trains?  Later, we ticked along past lake Orta, looking cool and inviting and screaming to this frustrated swimmer: "dive in!". I very nearly got off the train at the next stop.

At Novara, I clambered aboard a graffiti-covered train.

The seats were blue Naugahyde, the air conditioning from open windows, blue curtains flapping around as we rattled through the lowlands towards Santhia, a taste of the landscape next year, and then a curious dogleg southwest to Chivasso, before turning north again to Ivrea, where the Alps once more appeared. 

Wearing a mask is mandatory on all Italian public transport, and there's a serious fine for non-compliance.  However, it seems that the mask is worn under the chin this year, sometimes on the train as well as off, but it's one person per two seats, with separate doors for entering and exiting.

At Ivrea onto a big red train, with real aircon (such a blessed relief) and a tantalising glimpse of a wide river bordered by medieval buildings in Ivrea (I may get there this time, it's on the Via), and then the scenery got serious.  As we followed the route of the Via towards Aosta, there were sun-baked slopes, lined with adret (of which more in due course), villages clinging by their fingernails to the sides of impossible slopes, and castles at every turn.  Wrinklitourist got a bit excited by it all; there promise to be some fabulous walks ahead.

And finally, Aosta, dripping with Roman remains, and waiting to be discovered. Oh, and the train to Novara was late arriving, as was the one to Ivrea, so, no, they don't.